To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Thirty-one: Hunt for a Brigand

Carl and the two commandos returned to Antioch, January first, AD28. Alexander was still on the coast buying dye and cloth and arranging for shipping. The shipping season in the Mediterranean ran from 10 March to 11 November, dates determined by long experience. Mariners avoided the other months unless they were without recourse. The safest time for shipping was from 27 May to 14 September.

Carl didn't know if Alexander was going to wait until late May to ship his precious cargo. If so, he and his men would return to Britannia earlier, either going back the way they had traveled or risking the potentially more difficult weather on the sea in March and April. Sea travel to the west was twice as slow as that to the east, but it was easier on men and horses than the grueling overland route.

But leaving at any time depended upon recovering Raphael's stolen pistol. That now was a priority, and it was going to be difficult and dangerous.

It was quite likely that the bandit would simply expend the bullets and have no way of refilling cartridges, so the pistol would be worthless in the future. But an astute person, recognizing the power of the weapon, would consult with alchemists to find chemicals capable of duplicating the chemicals in the cartridge.

It would be possible, though difficult given the metallurgy of the day, to make a pistol, perhaps even a rifle, based on the 9mm. But even without a weapon, discovering the chemical basis for gunpowder would facilitate its the spread in the West centuries earlier than it had been. Carl could not permit that.

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                Reports from Tarsus were positive. The men were recovering well. He immediately sent two men to start their therapy, a foreign concept. He recalled his own difficult rehabilitation from the severe wound to his ankle. He gave detailed exercises they were to do after their wounds had healed properly, especially those for the cat quick Ombricus' thigh wound. The aide, Drusius, was to follow the same instructions. Carl wanted those men in traveling shape as quickly as possible.

The temporary loss of those three, coupled with the two deaths in the roadside ambush, had reduced his force by fifty percent. Other commandos had wounds and minor injuries, but their effectiveness had been little hampered, and now all had recuperated as they waited in Antioch.

Pember had trained the men and horses while Carl pursued Raphael. Roman legionnaires and even Syrian auxiliaries often watched in awe, and perhaps even envy, as he put his men through their paces. The small cavalry would charge an emplacement, then quickly and smoothly wheel as a unit to right or left depending upon a pipe command. Carl was filled with admiration at what Pember had accomplished. They were a small group, but they were proficient in what they needed to do, and all of the horses except those they had ridden south on were retrained.

Alexander returned on the fifteenth, and he had questions for Carl. He told how an itinerant Jewish trader had filled him in on the Messiah, and now he waited only to hear from Carl about this same Jesus. But first, "Did you find Raphael?"

"Yes, he was in his hometown after traveling to Bethsaida to kill Jesus."

Alexander knew Carl would provide more detail, but he wanted to know now what had happened. "Did he see Jesus?"

"He said he did. He intended to kill him, but Jesus said some things to him, and God's Spirit called to mind verses from Raphael's scriptures that caused him to realize he would commit an unforgivable sin if he killed Jesus, so he left him and visited his home town in Syria. His holy book said God didn't allow Jesus to die."

Alexander interrupted. "Can you believe him?"

"Good question, and I've thought about it. Raphael is . . . was a religious man. It was a different faith from mine, and he may have believed in a different God. Certainly, he thought I did!"

A rueful smile relieved his somber expression. "I don't believe, however, that he would go against the tenets of his own religion, which is why his recollection of certain of his scriptures was so important, even though I think they are false."

The last reference confused Alexander, until he recalled that many Greeks followed certain sacrificial rites even though he, himself, thought them worthless.

"The Qur'an, which is the name of the book Raphael's religion follows, also says God—or, Allah, as they call him—killed Jesus so that no human could do so. It is a very confused accounting of what happened at the crucifixion, but the Qur'an does claim Jesus was a very special messenger from God. In any case, it was written six hundred years after Jesus."

Alexander's mouth dropped wide in astonishment. How can that be?

Carl continued his story.  "On the way home Raphael was set upon by brigands who stole everything and left him for dead.

"A Jewish trader traveling the same road found him and with the help of his servants delivered him to Maaloula, though it's called Seliocopolis today. Raphael died the evening of the day I arrived. He arrived only that afternoon. It's a tragic loss to me, but he proved to me that Jesus was the Christ, the son of the living God."

"Did he believe that?"

"I can't know, but I don't think so. I think he still thought of Jesus as a prophet, what his religion calls him. But I can't know what he believed, all I can do is pray for him."

"Do your prayers in this life affect people in the next life?" That's an interesting concept!

Carl couldn't help grinning. Alexander was very sharp and quick to pick up on important points.

"No, I don't believe they do. Some people think you can affect the lives of people in the afterlife, at least in a place called Purgatory, by praying for them in this life to help purify them for heaven. My wife's church does, but I don't think that the New Testament shows that. I pray because I liked Raphael very much, he was like a younger brother to me, and we couldn't have built Long Reach without his trading skills and knowledge. I'll miss him very much, and now all I can do is pray for him, even though I don't believe it does him any good. It's more for me than Raphael, since there's nothing I can do except to be sure that Messalina and the boys are cared for."

Alexander's eyes lit up at the mention of Messalina, but he wasn't to be deterred from pursuing his interest. "Did you see Jesus?"

"I didn't need to. Shortly after Jesus was crucified, according to the writings of his followers, he was seen in an upper room where his followers were gathered together. Some had already seen him, but Thomas, who wasn't there earlier, said he wouldn't believe unless he touched the wounds in his hands and side, which were the result of the crucifixion.

"Later, Jesus appeared in a room when Thomas was present, and Thomas believed. Jesus bade him to touch his wounds, but Thomas realized he didn't need to do so to believe.

"But Jesus wouldn't let him off the hook. He said something that has bugged me [he used English because he didn't know the Latin for a comparable phrase] for a very long time: 'Blessed are those who believe who have not seen me.' That applies to me. I believe, but I also questioned. I thought I had to know with certainty that he was divine. I finally realized I didn't. I'm no longer sure belief can be certain."

Carl was impatient to return to Seliocopolis to search for the weapon, but he recognized a kindred spirit with a deep spiritual hunger so they discussed the Messiah long into the night. Alexander's excitement was a breath of fresh air to Carl whose own questions about Jesus' divinity had only recently been resolved. It was a delightful evening, and he was able to fill in some of the details that the Jewish trader had neglected or passed over.

As the hour grew late, he changed the subject. "Alexander, tomorrow I'm going to trust you as I've trusted no other man from this time. Please ponder tonight whether you want me to do so, because I'll put a heavy burden on you—if you're willing to accept it. Maybe all of this is working out as God would have it. Anyway, it is good to see you again. Now, I need sleep."

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The next morning Carl joined with Pember and the commandos in the cavalry exercises and again praised them for the quality of their horsemanship. He was doubly impressed at the quality of the horses. He had the feeling they would charge through a Roman cohort if commanded to do so.

Later, he and Alexander strolled to a local tavern and ordered wine to go with a very greasy type of fajita. Carl couldn't even pronounce its name, so he pointed then prayed that it was what he wanted. It was very dark after the bright sun.

"I need your help, Alexander, but first I must know, are you willing to keep what I tell you a confidence?"

Alexander had puzzled over the request, but he was quite willing to carry a heavy burden for his friend and spiritual confidant. He solemnly replied, "Yes."

"Good." Then Carl began at the beginning, in the Twenty-first Century, filling him in chronologically. Several times Alexander sought to clarify a point, but Carl had him hold questions until the end.

"The reason I tell you this," he concluded, "is that the weapon you saw me use against the brigands was stolen from Raphael by the robbers who attacked him. I know he killed one of them with a pistol, for that is what we call it, so they saw the weapon in action. You saw me fire a rifle, a much longer weapon. This is what a pistol looks like." He carefully laid his .45 on the table, but shielded it from view of others in the tavern.

"Raphael's pistol was slightly smaller than this, by which I mean he fired a smaller cartridge," and he placed one on the table.

The Greek fondled the bullet, but comprehension went only so far. He recalled Carl's conversation with Messalina about a pistol, a subject he forgot to bring up again. He had seen Carl kill several brigands with his rifle, but it was beyond his experience to understand how the small bullet could do so much damage.

Carl tried to explain how gunpowder was made and why it gave power to the gun. Then he expressed concern about the missing pistol. "In short, I need you to help me find the pistol. The people of that region speak Greek as a second language. As a trader, you can make inquiries to see if anything unusual has occurred along that stretch of the Damascus Road."

"Of course, of course. We shall begin immediately, but how will we find the brigands?"

Carl gave a crooked grin: "We'll offer ourselves as bait."

He didn't explain further at that point, but to Alexander, Carl's explanation of his origins explained many of the stories from Marcus and Sertorius, and proved they weren't the result of drunken revelries where soldiers piled one lie on top of another. But to think, Carl is from the future!

They spent the next day preparing for the journey. Carl had a flare gun and several flares which he had taken from the SAS supply truck. They left Antioch and rode into the mountains where he fired a flare to show how it looked and sounded, and to see that it still worked. The flares had been carefully protected from moisture.

One man was to accompany Carl and Alexander as a guard on the road from Seliocopolis to Damascus with the last two commandos trailing behind out of sight. They were to rush forward when the flare went off. Even if the flash were hidden by cliffs they could hear it.

They left Antioch early in the morning of 18 January and headed for Seliocopolis. Two men remained behind to guard the extra horses. Alexander loaded the mules in the caravan with packs filled with dirt and large amphorae filled with water. He wasn't going to waste good wine on a ruse.

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The old man who once had helped Carl warmly greeted him, pleased to see him again. He quickly reported that the traveling Jew had returned to check on Raphael, and he had passed Carl's thanks on to him.

"Thank you for remembering to do that."

The old man's Latin was good enough for Carl to communicate, but his Greek was much better, so Alexander translated. "Have there been any people killed on the road to Damascus in recent weeks? They would have had strange wounds."

The old man expressed surprise. "Yes, two men were killed just last week when they resisted the bandits. One was killed with an arrow, the second died with a hole in his chest, but no arrow, dagger, or sword made the wound. The caravan's assistants reported hearing thunder, then the leader died. The same thing happened two days before to another caravan."

Carl was relieved to hear the news. The bandit chieftain was using the pistol rather than creating an arsenal of ammunition, though he might quickly change his mind as his supply of shells dwindled.

And that's what happened.

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Methus, the chieftain, became alarmed at the thought of losing such a powerful weapon if he ran out of bullets, though that isn't what he called them, so he suspended brigandage to travel to Damascus to seek out an Arab alchemist. He emptied a cartridge in his presence and asked him to identify the ingredients. He didn't realize that the cap to ignite the gunpowder through a tiny spark hole in the bottom of the cartridge also needed to be removed and duplicated.

The alchemist lightly touched some of the powder to his tongue after he had sniffed and otherwise examined it. Though the gunpowder wasn't black powder, the alchemist quickly identified the ingredients. He had them readily at hand.

Before two days had passed he had prepared a volatile mix that would fill many cartridges. They even lit powder outside in a field to see what would happen. The enormous flare explained the cause of the explosion.

Only experimentation would enable the alchemist to get the most effective mix. The brigand was intelligent, but on this subject, both he and the alchemist were in over their heads. He took his supply of gunpowder and returned to camp. He had saved the cartridges and could make new slugs, but he didn't know that explosions enlarged the case and fitting a used cartridge into the pistol without preparing it properly would jam it in the chamber.

The alchemist wrote the formula on a papyrus roll and stuck it into a cubby hole on a shelf loaded with clay jars containing strange and exotic chemicals. He then began experimenting with different ingredients.

Perhaps it was divinely arranged, but a stray spark when he lit an oil float lamp set off a change reaction of flame in spilled saltpeter. The fire moved with frightening speed, igniting an oiled rag used as a stopper for a jug filled with gunpowder.

No one who entered the shop after the explosion could tell what had happened, only that the alchemist had lost a hand and was blinded. In great pain, he apparently stumbled about the shop, tripped, and fell into the fire. His clothes ablaze, he had reeled from the fireplace, hoarsely crying for help even as he became a human torch, setting his shop ablaze. He died before anyone could enter the shop, which was utterly gutted because of the many chemicals. Even his papyrus scroll of notes went up in flames.

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Carl and Alexander traveled the road from Seliocopolis to Damascus and returned without getting a rise from brigands. They started one more round trip, a leisurely paced walk designed to attract interested marauders. Again they arrived in beautiful Damascus unscathed, but this time Alexander's queries bore fruit, revealing that al Hamid the alchemist had died from severe burns. What was odd is that he lost a hand before dying. Neighboring merchants reported a loud noise unlike anything they had heard before, a noise immediately followed by fire and the destruction of everything in the shop.

"Sounds like he is . . . was our man," Carl murmured.

They carefully examined the blackened remains of the shop, but nothing had survived the holocaust, not even two attached shops. There was nothing to fear about anyone else getting the formula based on the brigand's cartridges. The question was whether the brigand chief would bite on their return trip to Seliocopolis.

"At least we know he's trying to replicate the powder," Carl murmured.

It was January 31 when they left Damascus, still winter, but a gentle breeze carried a touch of warmth. Trailing behind, as usual, were Pember and Bontecus. Carl was accompanied by Alexander, Probius, as guard, and assistants who rode or walked beside the mules.

The landscape in that part of the country was desolate, dry, and dusty. Slowly riding under a relentless sun, they became hot and frustrated by the time they entered one of the low passes with steep slopes crowned by rocky cliffs on each side. Their frustration abruptly ended when a brigand stepped from behind a large boulder and bade them halt.

Other thieves quickly stepped from their shelters to make their presence known. The brigand chieftain had a sword, but Carl could see he also had a pistol stuck in the cloth that tied his body-length tunic.

Bingo!

There were five brigands, a quick glance showed Carl, but with his superior firepower the odds were greatly reduced provided the trailing commandos quickly close the gap. Carl slowly stood in his stirrups so as not to alarm the brigands and glanced behind him only to see two more bandits blocking any retreat by the caravan, assuming they would even attempt it. They would have to fight where they were.

Offering myself as bait made a lot more sense earlier than it does now! Carl thought.

Even as the chieftain addressed Alexander, for he was the most richly dressed, Carl fired the flare gun from his hip, sending a flare high into the sky. Alexander and Probius immediately dove from their horses and scrambled into the shelter of large boulders, the assistants right behind them. Carl alone spurred forward, .45 in hand, charging toward the chieftain in the center of the road, before the brigands could recover from the flare with its accompanying shower of sparks and explosion.

But the chieftain had not become a leader of roughnecks without reason. He quickly grasped and raised his pistol to fire point blank at the charging Carl. Men with a great deal more experience in firing pistols had missed charging targets as close as Carl before, and he was inexperienced, pulling the trigger before the pistol was high enough, his slug going astray even as the horse crashed into him.

Carl leaped from the horse, landing and stumbling in the uneven road until he crashed into an outcropping. The frightened horse continued down the road, scattering several bandits.

That kind of landing will get me killed! Though stunned by the fall, he rolled into the lee of a rock to catch his breath. It was a fortuitous move as several arrows slammed into and bounced from the outcropping. He crouched behind the rock, hoping the commandos would join the fray before the bait was swallowed.

He glanced across the rugged pass in time to see an archer move into place and draw on him. He fired as the archer let fly, but his aim was off just enough that the bullet wounded the archer, forcing him to scamper from the hillside.

He had disturbed the archer's aim, but the arrow hit into the fleshy part of his left shoulder, missing the body armor. "Damn!"

The head had passed through the flesh, so he cut the shaft and pulled it through. It bled badly but not seriously. He needed help to bind it.

The chieftain had been knocked sprawling into the dust of the road, but he kept hold of his precious pistol and eagerly sought out his assailant. The boom of the .45 alerted him to Carl's whereabouts. More important, it alerted him to the presence of another weapon. Where do these fire spitters come from?

Two archers hurriedly left the scene—they had seen the death caused by such a weapon. They didn't want to match arrows against the death wind that came out of the barrel.

A clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of the commandos with weapons ready. The remaining brigands let loose an inaccurate flurry of arrows then crawled up the slopes to escape. They were killed before they reached half way.

The chieftain was trapped. His only recourse was to kill commandos thus driving them from the field as had happened with his own men.

His aim was not as steady as it had been, and his first shot missed Pember and ricocheted from a nearby rock.

 "Pember," Carl yelled, "get out of sight! He's behind that big black rock. He can kill you from there."

Even as he shouted, a second shot rang out and Bontecus clutched his shoulder. They quickly sought the shelter of boulders. One of the assistants jumped onto a horse and led the other down the valley.

"Alexander!" Carl yelled. "Tell him to throw his weapon into the road, and we'll let him live. Otherwise, he'll die at my hands."

Alexander did so, knowing that the brigand's life already was forfeit, and he would never give up his weapon.

Even as Alexander bargained, Carl sprinted across the road to the shelter of a large boulder, one that offered a better angle on the chieftain's hiding place.

Two brigands, braver than the rest, remained high on the hill above the chieftain. When they saw the commando's arrows could not reach them with any force, they began pelting the Brits with rocks while avoiding a landslide that would bury their chief.

Carl's rifle lay in his case, which was with his horse and the pack animals farther down the pass. A .45 was not accurate over such a distance, but he could probably hit them in the body somewhere and drive them from the hill.

His shoulder hurt like blazes, so he braced the pistol against a huge stone and when the two men again appeared with large rocks, he shot one as he held it over his head. The surprised bandit buckled, then collapsed and fell headlong, rolling down the steep slope into the ravine. His body slammed to a stop on a pyramid shaped boulder, his back broken, blood gushing from his mouth. The second bandit immediately re-learned the lesson of the gun and fled the scene leaving his chief to his fate.

Methus now was surrounded by commandos on three sides with his back to the canyon wall and his left front protected by a huge boulder. While they could not see him, neither could he see them unless they circumvented the boulder.

The commandos could easily attack and overpower the chieftain, but they already had two casualties, and Carl could afford no more unless it was absolutely necessary to attack him directly.

"Pember," he yelled in Gaelic, "when I fire, you and Bontecus race toward the baggage train. Throw your arrows and bow to Probius so he can cover the opening to the boulder. I'll stay and cover the same area from here. Climb above the brigand or send aides to start a landslide. We'll leave before they start it."

He repeated the message in Latin for Alexander then fired a precious bullet into the space just above the boulder, hoping against hope that a ricochet might hit the bandit. Men raced down the road to safety, and right behind them an arrow sped into the shelter. The brigand had started to show himself, aroused by the sound of running men.

Carl signaled "well done" to Probius.

Now Methus was in a truly desperate position. Pember and an assistant climbed the hill to command the heights above him. When in place they signaled their readiness to launch an assault. Carl motioned to Probius to leave as soon as he fired. Both of them fled the ravine as rocks pummeled the chieftain from above. Within minutes a landslide was started, burying the bandit, boulder, and much of the road.

As soon as stones stopped falling, commandos and assistants returned to dig out the chieftain even as Carl scrounged for empty cartridges and his flare gun, which he had flung into the road.

Pember was first to give the welcome news. "We have the weapon. The bandit protected it from the heavy stones with his body."

Carl voiced his feelings.  "His knowledge of its importance ill serves him now. Leave the body where it lies. There was no honor in this man." I've also got a measure of revenge for Raphael's death.

Before they left the ravine, Carl dug out a bullet for a grateful warrior.

"I'm getting too much practice in battlefield first aid," he groused to no one in particular, though he probably would admit he was getting rather proficient except with his own wound, which was dosed with medicine and bound by Pember, who wasn't willing to suture it. It was tightly bound in hopes the pressure would close the puncture.

Most important, Carl possessed the pistol, and they could return to Britannia with two missions accomplished. It was January 31, AD28. Rebecca. Here we come!